The Traveller

The storm clouds swirl against the moon, The hawk flies black across the snow, My steed shies at the shifting gloom, The darkness thickens where I go. But I ride on when stars are flown, As one who journeys to his own.

From hamlets draped in frozen white The flames of ruddy windows fall, Above the lashing of the night I hear the cheerful voices call. The homely hearths are lit in vain For one who rides across the plain.

The sharp blasts beat upon my breast, The wolves bay loud behind my back; I greet their howls with jest for jest, And laugh to hear them on my track. Across the night with terrors sown, I spur and journey to my own.

From open graves on either side, Wan fingers rise and beckon me; Old wrongs, uprooted as I ride, Cry out that right is yet to be. Dead faces throng upon the way, Dead voices speak and bid me stay.

The night hawk flies across the snow-- My way leads past the furthest hill; Though beggared to the tryst I go, Death waits to woo me to her will. I press my spurs, I ride alone, I laugh and journey to my own.